


Something Blue : An Easter Story

by ink2819



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is awesome, M/M, but i guess that's life, took a long damn time for them to come around
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink2819/pseuds/ink2819
Summary: Greg asked him out in November.He called Greg in December.And that was it. Greg waited through the next three months, and now it's April, and Greg feels more and more stupid by the day for waiting. He'd make a fool of himself to admit that he cared all this time, wouldn't he?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 12
Kudos: 56





	1. Eight Million

001.

There are eight million people living in London,

And Greg gets the feeling that he may just have to spend Christmas alone. 

002\. Archaeopteryx and the ice rink

Greg spent a great amount of time in front of the two stone panels while his sister’s children were attempting to leave their dirty handprints on every glass surface possible. Greg strolled out with them when his nephews demanded to be led to the top floor, and after a while, strolled back into the tiny exhibition room to stare at the bird some more. 

It was a truly beautiful creature, and there was that tragically dramatic feeling in its twisted posture, of being squashed and flattened under the weight of time. And Greg knew that some people believed it was fake, he was well aware of the accusations of the Archaeopteryx being a fraudery---but Greg was just glad that it existed at all, you know, post produced feathers or not, whether it did actually have the hope to take flight, or not. Greg didn’t care. It’s great to have something so ancient under your nose, reminds you that we’re all eventually folded into the wrinkles of the earth. 

Back in the big hall of the Natural History museum, Greg set his eyes across the room through the pillars of the corridors. The dim passage on the opposite side that led to the members’ exclusive gallery remained eerily quiet. Greg sometimes would walk over just to separate himself from the tourists holding up their smartphones and the screaming missiles of toddlers. And sometimes, he gets a glimpse inside the room -- it seems to be a small space stuffed with fascinating treasures kept away from the eyes of the public by a glass door. 

About a month ago, Greg was surprised to see a familiar face emerge from behind. From the several thousand glances he stole from the man in the past decade since they came to know each other, Greg could feel his heart rate doubling before he even saw Mycroft’s face. 

Sometimes it was just a false alarm. Whenever Greg happens to be around St. James’s park and see some lean, tall figure passing by in posh suits and an umbrella swinging by their side, he catches his breath for just a moment. But this time, it was absolutely the man himself. There was something Greg recognized instantly from the corner of his eye that was unmistakable, one of a kind.

Mycroft was looking down at his phone and oblivious to his surroundings, so Greg was blessed with the time to swallow back the gasp that almost escaped from his mouth. He did, however, have the pleasure to witness a flushed look of surprise on Mycroft’s face when he heard his name and looked up. 

“Surprised to see you here, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft said with a strained voice.

“I’m here with my sister and her kids, we do this a lot nowadays that the boys are into their dinosaur phase, already we’re planning to come back here when they open the ice rink for Christmas.” Greg replied with a slight smile, and was very surprised to see his words made Mycroft smile back in return. He continued, “Surprised to see _you_ in a museum filled with screaming children and interactive displays about volcanoes.” 

“Well,” Mycroft held his chin a little higher, “The dinosaurs and volcanoes are a childhood hobby of mine.”

An image of a young Mycroft in his school boy uniform, wandering through the halls of the museum came to Greg’s mind. It made him smile even brighter. He wondered if that young boy had preached his extensive knowledge on the ancient species to people with a straight face or that proud, ‘I’m always right’ smirk that seemed heritatory in the Holmes family. “You must have been an expert.” Said Greg.

“I still am.” Mycroft looked slightly amused. Then his phone chimed, and the screen flashed bright in his hand. “Alas, I must leave you. Hope you and your nephews have an enjoyable visit.” Said he, distractedly frowning a little at his new message. “And the ice skating, come next visit.”

“And that.” Greg chuckled, thanked him, and watched Mycroft walk pass toward the staircase. 

Then, Greg had no idea what came to him that particular moment, for he took a deep breath with a strange determination, and began to form the first syllables of the man’s name with his mouth.

Mycroft had already stilled his steps before Greg even began to make a sound. He stood there with his back toward the light at the edge of the shadows, shoulders tense.

“Mycroft?”

“I-”

He turned around at once, eyes anxious and unsure, as if shocked by his own revelation. His mouth stayed slightly opened, a sentence hesitating on his lips.

“Apologies...Please, you were saying?” Mycroft quickly composed himself, his murmurs almost entirely imperceptible from a few feet away, masked by the echoing chatters and scream of the visitors in the grand hall.

**

“There you are.”

Greg heard the familiar voice of his sister beside him. “We might head to the ice rink outside before it gets dark?” She said. The two boys behind them were chatting between themselves about the many thoughts on ice skating with excitement.

“Yes, let’s.” Greg said, smiling to himself.

003\. A Fearless Girl 

The ASEAN government officials don’t take Christmas holidays, and so Mycroft didn’t either. There are eight million people living in New York City, where Mycroft knew he’d spend his Christmas alone.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t call, he did ask you out didn’t he?” 

Anthea asked out of nowhere, while she was fishing for her chapstick inside her bag, her head low, the expression completely hidden from him. Nevertheless, Mycroft still stared daggers in her general direction, waiting patiently for her to look back up and meet his eyes.

“Oh please, Mr Holmes…” The brunette said, unflinchingly, while pulling her lips thin into a weird smile and smearing the small tube of vanilla scented product across them, “He said he found you interesting, and said he’d like to see you … AND he wanted to put this ‘seeing’ on a schedule. That is the perfect definition of asking you out.”

“Asking me out.” Mycroft just scoffed at the term.

Here they were, Wall Street, right around the corner of Christmas, an afternoon that was the well earned recess between a busy week of committee meetings. The path they were walking down was half shielded by the enormous shadow of the buildings around them. There was a hideous Christmas tree just ahead about twenty meters high, a couple of tourists were taking pictures with the bronze statue of a little girl looking up fiercely at the entrance of the New York Stock Exchange building with hands on her hips. The crowd was sparse.

“Not the same without the bull now.” Anthea remarked, “But she is still adorable.” 

Mycroft knew that Anthea must have liked the fearless girl right from the beginning, when she was still positioned in front of the charging Wall Street bull - of course she would remind Anthea of herself in some way, facing off the world with her head held high, with dignity and courage, and impeccable strength.

“Do you really think I should,” Mycroft asked, “Call him?”

Anthea was walking well ahead of him by this point, and she stopped dead in her tracks, turning around to look at him, a surprised look on her face.

 _It really is bothering you, isn’t it?_ Mycroft knew she wanted to ask, but she didn’t, for if she did ask, he would be forced to admit.

They shared a few moments of silence, the ruthless draft of the New York winter blowing Anthea’s hair all over the place. Then Mycroft realized that he was not the only one here stranded in a foreign city amid the festive season, in lack of a person to call and to exchange gentle words of affection. He always told himself he needed no such sentiment in his life, but what did the girl who always stood beside him ever make of it all?

“Mr. Holmes, I have worked alongside you for almost a decade now, and I hope you can someday see me as your friend.” She said, and before Mycroft could think of what to reply, she continued, “Then consider this an advice from someone who fully understands your position.”

“It takes courage and will to go into a battle when you have no idea if you’d prevail, you might consider it stupidity, a deranged martyrdom even, but I’d say to lose yourself in faith is better than to live entirely without one. You need only be completely sure that you will never regret it - if you think you’d for a single moment falter in your pursuit, then, leave it. For you cannot afford to treat it lightly as everyone else.”

Then Anthea turned her back from him once more, her heels clicking away on the flagstones. “We’re here, come on.” she said, walking toward the entrance of Hermès across the street, and Mycroft followed with a smile.


	2. Estuary

Greg had already stepped on the escalator down at the tube station when Mycroft texted him:

_May I call you? -MH_

Greg felt his heart lurch as the name popped up on his lock screen, he took a breath to calm himself down before tapping on the small chat box. 

His phone opened alright, but the new message didn’t load in the window, the last line he saw was still the polite exchange he had with Mycroft back in October. He pulled down the notifications, and the message was gone. 

Greg spent a few seconds switching back and forth on his phone, doubting his sanity, until the screeching sound of the escalator beneath him reminded Greg that it was probably because he lost signal half way through. 

“Excuse me, sorry.” Greg pushed past the few people blocking him from ahead and rushed to the end, only to step off and get on the other escalator that went in the opposite direction. 

_This is all quite mad_ , thought Greg as he climbed the ascending stairs only to get to the top a bit faster, _and pathetic_. But again, There was no way for Mycroft to know, and you can’t play it cool when it comes to the iceman himself, he’d always out freeze you.

And there it was - the text, when Greg’s signal bars finally returned from limbo and he was completely out of breath - He wasn’t hallucinating it all out of loneliness during the Christmas season. 

Greg walked out the station and a few steps from the entrance to get away from all the noise, and dialed Mycroft’s phone with a shaking hand.

“Greg.” It almost took no time for Mycroft to pick up. 

Greg huffed out a laugh at his own name being spoken, and saw the fog of his breath disappear into the night. “Mycroft,” He tried, and felt a strange excitement as the name escaped from his mouth, “How are you?” 

“I am well.” The reply was low and gentle, “I wish to bid you Happy Christmas.”

Greg felt his face heat up a little against the wind. A car slid past Greg and he could hear the tire grounding on the gravel, the distant footsteps and electronic beeping of the ticket entrance behind him, but on Mycroft’s side there was just a calm silence.

“Thank you. Happy Christmas.” Greg murmured, “Back with the family already?”

Mycroft took a pause on the other end, “No, not this year I’m afraid. I’m abroad...duty calls.”

“Is that why you said you don’t know when you can see me?” Greg blurted out, then cut himself off, flustered, before he could even get a proper reply, “Nevermind, where are you? Wait, no - don’t tell me if it’s a secret -”

“It’s alright.” said Mycroft, “I’m in New York.”

“-Oh.”

“Mm. I have been here for quite some time.” Mycroft explained, and Greg took that as a yes for his previous question. 

“How is it like, New York?” Greg asked, as if he could not demonstrate any clearer how much he wanted the conversation to continue. 

Mycroft took some time to think, and Greg waited patiently as he stood out there in the cold, not knowing if Mycroft would take up the invitation to make their call a longer one or politely make an excuse to leave. 

“Condensed, neurotic,” Mycroft said quietly, “cold.”

“Sound a bit like where I am.” Greg laughed.

“Quite.” Mycroft laughed with him, soft chuckles from the other end ringing in Greg’s ear - and Greg clinged on to it. His fingers were turning stiff for holding the phone out in the wind but he did not care, his cheeks were warm, feverishly warm. 

“You don’t ...have plans for the holidays?” Mycroft started again, the hesitation quite out of place for his usual self.

“Happy to take on the shift, things are complicated but ah, well, it’s like that sometimes.” Greg winced at his own words, not knowing how well it works to circumvent one’s chaotic family life in a conversation with the all knowing Mycroft Holmes.

But if Mycroft knew something, he made no comment. “It really does.” He said, and Greg was lost in his head wondering if it was a line of Mycroft’s diplomatic empathy or otherwise.

Greg closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the city, from his impression - with all the skyscrapers, sharp edges and elongated outlines, the color of steel and glass panels, its yellow cabs and green subway entrances, under all that mud dust and mold, under a grim and evermoving sky.

Then he pictured Mycroft, the mystery of a man that he is, the formal, straight to the point and distant way that he went about everything, and the very rare, endearing moments when he slips. Mycroft was never vague, when he occasionally detours in a conversation to muse on things Greg felt he did so as a tactic.

It seemed quite reasonable for Mycroft to exist in a city like that, but Mycroft Holmes definitely did not seem to exist in late night calls about weathers and cities. 

Greg was having a hard time processing the surreality of it all, when a crowd of young people went past him, and rushed into the narrow entrance of the station like a school of fish in a stream - “Listen,” Greg spoke into the phone, turning his face away from the people, “I’m really glad that you called - ”

“You’re outdoors.” Came Mycroft’s voice as he must have heard the traffic and the crowd, and Greg could not tell if there was any emotion behind this statement. 

“I -uh, yes, I’m about to - I just got out of work.” He lied.

“Then I must keep you no further, you need to be on your way -”

“No, no, hold on.” Greg said in haste, “Is this - am I keeping you from anything?” 

“Nothing with significance.” 

“Good.” said Greg, as he switched the phone into the other hand and lifted his arm to hail for a cab that miraculously appeared down the road. “I’ve said, I’m really glad to hear from you-” He paused as he shuffled into the backseat, shutting the door on his way, “and I’d like to hear your voice a bit longer if you don’t mind.”

Down the line there was a halt - for a moment too long - and then an “I see.” spoken so softly it knocked Greg out of breath for a few moments.

When he did recover,Greg was suddenly in a bold mood. “Can I enjoy your company for a couple more minutes, then?”

The couple more minutes rather stretched to a couple more hours by the end of that night. Mycroft complained about the lack of a decent snack in his hotel room, and gave Greg a wonderful account of the view from his fifty two story window - of the Hudson River, the busy penn station from above - “Where so many different lives cross paths at once,” he had said, all gentle and whimsical in his comment.

It wouldn’t really be Greg’s fault then, would it, when he couldn’t help but to confess how much he wanted Mycroft to be with him. Would it really be his fault, that after hearing those tender words whispered to him down the line from a hollow, darkened penthouse suite across the ocean, by the man he longed for years, he felt the absolute need to tell Mycroft that he wished to see his face more than anything in the world?

Mycroft even matched Greg’s words with his own sweet disclosure - when the clock turned to 2am on Greg’s end, and 9pm in New York - Mycroft said to him, ever so carefully, “If only the circumstances permit...I think I’d like to spend this time with you, Greg, more than anything.”

And Greg could feel his heart surrender to those words as he clutched the phone so tightly against his sweating cheek. He knew that the circumstances did not permit, he knew Mycroft was only speaking hypothetically, he knew he was being a damned fool, and he knew he’d pay the price for it one day. _But not now_ , he thought, _not tonight,_ and allowed himself to be happy.


	3. The Garden of Gethsemane

Going into the month of April, Greg supposed it was a good thing that nobody was out there killing anyone on the streets anymore, and he was not out of a job, but indeed out of work. 

He picked up reading again, dug up some Agatha Christie novels from his dust covered shelves, and dived into them quite desperately - these books were what offered him an escape from the real world in his twenties - but even that gets tiring after a while.

It was all more irritating than tiring, actually, Greg decided eventually. 

He used to enjoy these things, you see - detective stories, clever mysteries and what not, they used to stretch his mind a bit, fill his head with the excitement of romanticized ideas about solving crimes, and now they are just --- Loaded. 

He could not go through a single page without thinking about his work, could not read a single word without thinking about Sherlock, and when he thinks about Sherlock - He thinks about  _ him. _

Around midnight, Greg found an abandoned Marlboro between the worn out cushions of his couch, alongside half a handful of crumbs of god knows what. The cigarette paper stayed perfectly crisp and intact miraculously, not a single crease or crack on the white column. Greg excavated it ever so gently, and held it between his fingers for a few long, silent seconds, just staring at it.

He had not smoked in years. 

It was in the small hours that Greg finally gave into the temptation. He rummaged through all his drawers to find a lighter, all the while thinking that he probably shouldn’t do this, but his hand was shaking, and no one would know. No one would care to judge. 

Eventually, frustrated, Greg settled for the gas ring as a lighter. 

A series of clicking sounds from the electric igniter, then the flames were up, blueish and swaying. With the cigarette between his lips, Greg leaned his head forward, felt the dangerous warmth on his face, and inhaled --

Then it hit him, the fume, like a soft punch to his throat, bitterness lathering the back of his tongue. Oh how foul it was, stale. 

Greg slid open his apartment window for a tiny crack, and watched the pale smoke between his fingers get blown apart by the night draft. He had not done this for so long, it made his head dizzy, made him vulnerable to shivers when the cold air brushed his skin.

It was the small hours that were the hardest to deal with. In the small hours of the morning he couldn’t escape the thoughts of  _ him _ . 

Greg had spent the last Christmas alone. When they lit up Piccadilly with those stupid lights, and the shops were blasting those cheery tunes, he strolled through the festive scene in London all by himself, but he was fine by then.

When January came around, Greg was still full of optimism and feverishly happy all day, waiting for the man himself to get back to him and cash in on that date they agreed upon. Greg kept a silly grin on his face while he walked around in the met, about which Sargent Donovan could not be more puzzled. Half way through the month was when Greg got the text, the text that said  _ he  _ needed more time to consider Greg’s proposal, that asked Greg to wait for him to resume contact and that he apologizes for any undue inconvenience it might have caused. 

Then Greg got a separate text from Anthea, the assistant, telling him he was to directly contact her from then on if anything came up about Sherlock.

Greg did not complain, he waited for almost a decade and thought he could wait some more. It was no big deal, the guy wanted to be left alone, and he respects that. Greg considered himself a patient man, and refrained from ruining it all with eagerness or by demanding a proper explanation from a man who in their decade long acquaintance never really bothered to explain a thing. 

Then came February, and the entire week surrounding Valentine’s Day it was raining every single fucking day. Greg was miserable and blamed the weather, and when it finally cleared up on that Sunday, he went out and bought a new scarf. 

March was a disaster, that was no news. In the midst of it all Greg just wished that  _ he _ was fine. Unable to contain his anxiousness on a weary Wednesday afternoon, Greg worked up the courage to ask Sherlock how his brother was doing, before bracing himself for the deduction, then the mockery and scorn. 

But the younger Holmes was clearly too preoccupied to pick up the clue, “Of course he’s fine. Probably vacated to a cottage in the country at the first whiff of a pandemic, why should I care?” 

John, on the other hand, shot Greg a thoughtful look from behind his newspaper but said nothing. 

Now it's well into April, and Greg felt more and more stupud by the day for waiting. He could not have felt more like a fool for caring after all this time, and yet he did care. As if fate was going out of her ways to torment him, his mind was all the more vulnerable as this quarantine business dragged on. It would seem that he had to wait, nothing was to be resolved while the world is in lock down. Greg was destined to be left brewing in his longings without a chance to complain. 

As he went about putting out his cigarette, a distant scene crept into his muddled mind - it must have been more than five years back, before John Watson miraculously appeared to rescue the pair of Sherlock's original caretakers, when one night Greg spotted the mysterious elder Holmes standing in the parking lot of the hospital, where Sherlock was just emitted. He had between his fingers a thin cigarette, and looked instantly guilty as soon as he caught Greg in sight, almost dropping the thing entirely out of shock. Acting purely instinctively, Greg had asked for a light from the man, all the while scrambling for his own packet of tobacco, as if to raise some proof that he was a true ally. 

Greg, so many years later, winced at this memory, for it was at the time coloured fully with hope. Greg was agitated by this, realizing that even the trivial joy of lighting a cigarette was now robbed from him. The wretched thoughts of that man awaits in every corner of his life, ready to haunt him when he least expects. 

Greg was ready to take measures, or so he thought, in the height of his frustration, all he wanted was to get his life back. 

The attempt, however, after a few minutes of consideration, was somewhat pathetic. Greg decided that as desperate as he was, he couldn't act despite himself, at least not from the very beginning, so at five in the morning he feebly resorted to texting Anthea:

_ Can you tell me where he is? -GL _

the reply came uncannily quickly:

_He is well._ _-A_

_ Not the question - GL _

_ I cannot disclose his location for security reasons as I'm sure you are aware. -A _

_ Can I speak to him? -GL _

_ Now? -A _

_ Sometime soon? -GL _

_ No,and no. -A _

The refusal came clean and swift, and Greg laughed to himself bitterly. Before he could start thinking about how he might find closure elsewhere after such a fruitless and trivial attempt, his phone chimed again:

_ Are the results of Sherlock's physical examination from Miss Hooper still in your office? -A _

_ Yes. _ Greg typed back, bewildered.

_ I think Mr Holmes might like them back in his archive. May I ask you to meet this afternoon at the entrance of New Scotland Yard? -A _

*

It felt strange to be out. The victoria embankment was almost completely empty, quieter than Greg had ever known it to be. The ferris wheel stood still on the other side like a silent giant against a devastatingly blue sky. All around him the rows of plane trees sighed with the wind.

When Anthea stepped out of the black car by the road five minutes before their scheduled time, Greg had already been standing in the wind across from the Yard for ten minutes. 

“I thought I was early.” Said the brunette.

“I was earlier than you.” Greg smiled at her, raising a manilla folder in his hand. 

“Thank you.” She nodded. “I understand you wish to talk.”

Greg was not prepared for this. 

“What? -Er, no offense, but are you some kind of messenger pigeon now?”

“This meeting was of my own accord, and I am speaking with you off record at this moment, you can make of that what you will.” Said Anthea, and with a glance at her phone, she added, “I have exactly fifteen minutes.”

Greg was not prepared for this either. 

“Okay. Wow, I mean - sure let’s talk. Let me - excuse me, then -” Greg opted for a strategic time off, reaching down in his pockets, “I’ll just - could you come over while we - just behind the memorial.”

Greg led the way around the strip of bronze monument on the embankment, and used its body to shield the wind from his face as he pulled a cigarette out and lit it. “Less windy round the corner here.” He explained.

The young assistant just looked at him with a quiet look of disbelief that reminded him so much of her employer.

“Kills virus, so they say.” Greg said as he blew the smoke away from her face.

“That’s not true, it compromises your health if anything, and you should be wearing a mask.” 

Greg laughed and shook his head. “I know.”

Perhaps seeing that Greg wasn't about to exactly utilize her time wisely, Anthea decided to start the conversation herself, “May I ask, what exactly is the problem?” 

Greg studied her face, there was no trace of indignation or impatience, her expressions plainly inquisitive.

“From what I understand, you expressed intentions to pursue a relationship of romantic nature with Mr Holmes last year, then in January both of you had agreed to cease contact,” she explained, “so why is it that after three months you wish to contact him again?”

“Cease contact - I didn’t agree to - he asked me to give him some time to - to think? ” Greg dropped the cigarette butt to the ground. “Should I have taken that as a ‘no’ back then? I don’t - it sounded like he wanted me to wait.”

There was a look of realization on Anthea’s face. She didn’t know this. 

“And you waited.” She murmured.

“I did.” Greg said, fidgeting all of a sudden as embarrassment caught up to him. “He didn’t exactly give me an explanation, and this - staying home all day long with nothing to do - it isn’t really helping. I just - I just thought, I’d really like my life back, you know. I’d like to not be thinking all the time what I may have done wrong, or what I could do to make it work-”

“I see.” Said Anthea, this time not so completely devoid of emotions in her tone.

“-God, I’m sorry. Wasn’t expecting to just-” Greg brought hands up to rub his face, “-laid it all out, haven’t I? You didn’t need to hear it, I’m so, so sorry-”

Surprisingly, the young woman rolled her eyes and put an instant stop to his stammering apology, “Oh come on, inspector,” she said with a profoundly humorous tone, “I can do without another grown man beating himself up for letting out some real emotions. You are justified for feeling what you feel.”

Greg opened his mouth in an attempt to form a reply, but nothing came out. 

“You’re welcome.” She smiled knowingly. “As for the other end, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.” Greg managed, “Um, he - Mycroft, and you are doing well, you said?”

“We are getting by. It’s a trying time for all of us.” Said Anthea, and just for a moment, Greg felt like everything might just be alright. 


End file.
